TONI MORRISON: The Pain Of Being Black or (Stop Policing Black Sexuality and Reproductive Habits)

  • Interviewer: In one of your books you described young black men who say, "We have found the whole business of being black and men at the same time too difficult." You said that they then turned their interest to flashy clothing and to being hip and abandoned the responsibility of trying to be black and male.
  • Toni Morrison: I said they took their testicles and put them on their chest. I don't know what their responsibility is anymore. They're not given the opportunity to choose what their responsibilities are. There's 60% unemployment for black teenagers in this city. What kind of choice is that?
  • Interviewer: This leads to the problem of the depressingly large number of single-parent households and the crisis in unwed teenage pregnancies. Do you see a way out of that set of worsening circumstances and statistics?
  • Toni Morrison: Well, neither of those things seems to me a debility. I don't think a female running a house is a problem, a broken family. It's perceived as one because of the notion that a head is a man. Two parents can't raise a child any more than one. You need a whole community -- everybody -- to raise a child. The notion that the head is the one who brings in the most money is a patriarchal notion, that a woman -- and I have raised two children, alone -- is somehow lesser than a male head. Or that I am incomplete without the male. This is not true. And the little nuclear family is a paradigm that just doesn't work. It doesn't work for white people or for black people. Why we are hanging onto it, I don't know. It isolates people into little units -- people need a larger unit.
  • Interviewer: And teenage pregnancies?
  • Toni Morrison: Everybody's grandmother was a teenager when they got pregnant. Whether they were 15 or 16, they ran a house, a farm, they went to work, they raised their children.
  • Interviewer: But everybody's grandmother didn't have the potential for living a different kind of life. These teenagers -- 16, 15 -- haven't had time to find out if they have special abilities, talents. They're babies having babies.
  • Toni Morrison: The child's not going to hurt them. Of course, it is absolutely time consuming. But who cares about the schedule? What is this business that you have to finish school at 18? They're not babies. We have decided that puberty extends to what -- 30? When do people stop being kids? The body is ready to have babies, that's why they are in a passion to do it. Nature wants it done then, when the body can handle it, not after 40, when the income can handle it.
Reblogged from Abolitionista's Pen
You know, it’s a happy measure of how far we’ve come that it doesn’t seem all that remarkable, but still it’s noteworthy, Gabby Douglas is, as it happens, the first African American to win the women’s all-around in gymnastics. The barriers have long since been down, but sometimes there can be an imaginary barrier, based on how one might see oneself.

Bob Costas’s absurd awkward mealy-mouthed statement, on NBC following Gabby Douglas’s gold medal performance, perfectly captures white liberal racism: pretending to celebrate Black achievement while in fact insinuating that the only racism which remains in the world is “an imaginary barrier based on how one might see oneself”. In this white liberal worldview, white people have already done everything they can to liberate Black people and people of color — I mean, they granted us Civil Rights! In this white liberal worldview, there are no longer any physical, economic, institutional, societal, or structural impediments to African American success, only psychic impediments within African Americans themselves. That is typical white liberal racism. (via zuky)

My jaw hit the floor when I heard that shit. I hope NBC doesn’t get to air the Olympics ever again because the commentary has been fucking ridiculous across the board. 

(via darkjez)

thank you!!

Reblogged from negro sunshine.

SEXY

I found my sexy in the words of a small insult

I lost the bounds of my stiff, prude movements in a smile

I spoke shy words through confident expressions

And heard the melodies of a song unwritten

Their eyes scan me not the body presented

Their hands hold each part of my figure

Their skin to mine, smooth and inviting

Their lips to mine, delicious and satisfying

I found my sexy when their eyes meet mine

I allowed my self to feel my sexy 

Incubus, My Multicultural love affair

Incubus, My multicultural love affair[1]

 

I cannot ignore or begin to pretend that the music, which pours from the fingertips and vocal chords of the band called incubus, does not have quite the affect on me. I had first allowed my presence to be swept away by their hypnotic and at times psychedelic sound when I was twelve years old, before I knew and understood fully the truth of this world. When the first few chords to the song “Drive” landed effortlessly on my eardrums, I remember letting myself go into both the lyrics and the sound of the Brandon Boyd’s voice, Boyd is the lead signer and lyrical composer for the group. I knew then that the music of this band would always be present in my life. After years of flipping through tight or loose denim, jean jackets, airbrushed accessories, over sized hooded sweatshirts, the Warner Brothers network and B2K I found myself hunting for a new sound to fall in love with.

 

This sound had to match the edge that I had decorated my so-called profound eighteen-year-old soul with, it had to express the thirst I thought I knew I had for life. But this time the search had requirements; I set out to discover rock and roll bands that had black members in them. I started first with the melodies of Thin Lizzy, I then stumbled into the sound waves of TV On the Radio, and then as if a reunion was waiting to take place I found an image of the band Incubus and saw the DJ Chris Kilmore (a Black man rocking a beautiful full head of dreadlocked hair), and the bassist Ben Kenney (Black and former guitar player for the Roots)this photo brought to me a notion of familiarity  and this sensation latched itself onto my thought process and I immediately pulled up their music.

 

The first song I found was “stellar” and as if I had been listening to the song every day since it’s release, I sang the lyrics out loud, I played another song “Pardon me” and those words too fell from my lips the third song I played solved for me the riddle of this band that I had some how had an unconscious love for. When I released the sound of “Drive” on ears that had aged by six years, I found myself trapped in a temporal state of being that transported me back to my twelve-year-old self. I was in a type of time warp somewhere between 1999 and 2007 and all I could do was listen to the lyrics of the song. The song beckons its listeners to not just let life happen to them but rather to actively be apart of their living experience. Having spent a majority of my teenage years disconnected from reality and floating in space of what I will label at this moment as incomplete, this song was what I had desired to listen to.

 

At that moment I entered my incubus phase, I say phase because for three months solid I listened to barley anything else. I discovered all of the work that they had produced up until 2006, and became addicted to their sound. Every morning when I got up the first thing that was on my mind was I had to hear a rift, a chord, even a drum beat from the band. The song that I deemed my favorite from them was a smooth, mellow hypnotic tune called “Echo.” The very moment when the beat drops in this song, I always have to close my eyes and let every sound enter into by body, this song is amazing.

 

I realize that I find the band interesting because their sound is quite unique; they mix classic rock and roll elements with sounds of reggae, disk jokey mixing, and oriental and native instrumentation. Boyd who writes the lyrics to the songs also attempts at moments to be political, though I disagree with his liberal leaning politics, I must admit that I appreciate a white person at least admitting that there is something wrong with white domination and control. But the one thing I will say is that is this band knows how to write a love song (civil society love[2]) in fact they know how to write lyrics period. Before their most recent release, If Not now, when, the band would come up with a collection of phrases and adjectives that were strange in their presentation but not only made sense but described perfectly how one was feeling, especially a person in “love”. It is the combination of a “diverse” sound and eclectic lyrics that keeps me a fan of this band.

 

I have spent the last five years being a conscious Incubus fan, having their music on rotation on my lab top and on mixed cd’s in my car I even had the pleasure of sharing my love for the band with an ex, whom was a lot more hardcore than me. But what I have noticed as I have gotten older, and as my comprehension for life functionalities have changed so has my passions.  I enjoy listening to music, but not in the way that I used to and music no longer has the same affects. My previous listening experiences would transport me to a place of sound calmness now I feel as if I am simply a listener and not someone who is actually engaged with the music. I thank two years of heavy afro-pessimist ideology for this new approach to musical appreciation, for it was this philosophy that taught me to be a being present in the world but not of it. I encounter every aspect of my life with a critical and analytical stance, and this position allows me to understand what I am really engaging with.

 

Now at twenty-two, exactly ten years after hearing the first song that turned my attention toward the group I find that I do still enjoy their work but this time I think it is more for the sense of nostalgia that the band’s music allows me to involve myself with. Ever time I hear Boyd’s voice I am taken back to a point in time where the most complex thing I had to do in my life was attending class.

 



[1] “Multi cultural love affair” is a reference to the fact that the band consists of two Black men, two white men and one Hispanic man.  Also refer to Hochschild, Jennifer and Weaver, Vesla. 2008. The Shifting Politics of Multiracilism in the United States. American Political Science Association

[2]  see Frank Wilderson III, Gramsci’s Black Marx: Whither the Slave in Civil Society?

Almost Lover: a broken heart piece

I guess I have to purge from the depths of my mind a truth that has be incredibly difficult to put down to paper, maybe that’s why I have avoided writing about it for a while because the actual process of writing it means that I have to face a few realities and before now I wasn’t ready to fully accept them.  Love is a funny thing, and a thing is the best way to describe it, it is different for everyone and it shows up in whatever forms the person wilding it gives to it. For me love always comes into being once love is gone. I have to give weight to the previous sentence by explaining what it is that I mean.  I had the pleasure of meeting a wonderful person, a person whose vey being brought energy to me and left a smile on my face even hours after they left the room. This person was as troubled, heartbroken, and serious as they were funny, witty and kind. We spent hours talking with each other exploring the personal and the superficial; phone conversations when we were apart that last well beyond two hours finding a means to entertain ourselves even if it was simply to hear each other’s voices. I was the person to whom their thoughts could freely run and the person they could feel stress free around (this was told through their body language, whenever it was just the two of us I would see their figure release and break down and just be honest). We were both busy people, our commitments consumed our lives but when we were together time would slow to a paces that gave ease and let us rest calmly in each others arms and enjoy the stories of our day, making laughter as easy as breathing.  I was the first girl they missed and this person doesn’t miss girls, I was the girl that made them laugh without trying and I was the girl that brought a certain light to their eyes that even old friends could point out a light that showed them how much you once cared for me.

When we touched it was like our very being was holding onto each other, we fell into each other when our bodies meet, taking each other to a place of euphoria. Kissing you was smooth, having you hold me and me hold you was comfortable you laying down with your head in my lap felt peaceful, that’s what humanity must feel like, you allowed me to feel like a being of this world. Thank you for that. We connected over full moons and childhood stories of our relationships with friends to our position with families…being held by you in my sleep was once something that my body craved.

But then you said goodbye and with that you took everything with you, our smiles our stories our memoires and left me with nothing but the impression of your figure upon mine and all the stupid things that only I would know: like your favorite color, why you don’t like cigarette smokers, why you hate your dad, how you feel about your friends, the fact that you can make banana pancakes, that you love incubus and the foo fighters, why you went to court( twice), that your mom is your best friend, that you injured your back in high school, that the moon was your guide when you were lost so that’s why you love it and that you broke the promise that you keep me around no matter what.  You broke my heart, and I had to live with that. It took me a while to realize that the pain I felt and the tears I cried steamed from a root that was being planted, the root of Almost lovers.

It hurts that you don’t want to talk to me, it’s painful that you don’t think that I deserve to be talked to and it sad that we can’t even be friends.  I didn’t know that I was falling until the ground came abruptly with your words and your cold treatment. I no longer know who you are because the person I once knew wouldn’t treat me this way. I can now only wonder what is it that went wrong, and why do you avoid me? Why are you rude to me? We broke up because the timing was bad nothing was wrong elsewise. But you would almost ruin everything when you told me that you “used” me. How did you use me when we created a safe space for each other, how did you use me when I made you feel more than you ever felt with anyone before me. Even your brother wanted us to reconnect. I only know how to do me and I only know how to heal on my own time, you didn’t break me only bruised me but my wounds will heal….will you be able to forgive yourself because you might have just walked out on experiencing a  love of a life time…

Text message from an Almost lover, you tell me who was used!

“Sorry i was helpin out. But I couldnt wait to get bak to my phone to tell u this:

I’m so blessed to know u and have u around. I think  ur wonderful and beautiful in every way imaginable. I will do whatever it takes to keep u around, and I mean that with all my heart. I  tell u that u deserve the best..well it motivates me to be just that. I really miss you and want u in my arms so i can protect u. I thank you for being so on my level and just amazing. I’ve been through a lot. And im glad because i wouldnt be who I am now. And i think im great for u and us.  U have an amzing heart and I hope u share it with me someday…and for awhile too. Good nite beautiful.”

I reconnected with my love for the Art world, this is not to be confused with just any art I am referring to Black art. When I went to LACMA in Los Angeles this past weekend with a dear friend I re-connected with the works that gave something new to my notion of being and when I starred into the grease portraits by David Hammons captivated doesn’t even begin to describe my state. I stood in front of his “Injustice Case” piece for more than 15 minutes finding the detail of his technique haunting, the photo which pressed upon the white canvas puts the viewer into his position of captivity. It is a piece that ignites in me the fire of revolutionary that I am. 
The piece above is called “Green power” and it is a phenomenal work of art. In it there is a hand which holds up four male sex organs otherwise known as the penis. The photo places power not only in ones hands but also into the penis, remarking on the state and condition of power, who has it who has access to it and what it means to be powerful. The penis in this case, and in affect “manhood” is power. The green color I wold say remarks on the color of power, money is power and money is green. This is a great piece. 

I reconnected with my love for the Art world, this is not to be confused with just any art I am referring to Black art. When I went to LACMA in Los Angeles this past weekend with a dear friend I re-connected with the works that gave something new to my notion of being and when I starred into the grease portraits by David Hammons captivated doesn’t even begin to describe my state. I stood in front of his “Injustice Case” piece for more than 15 minutes finding the detail of his technique haunting, the photo which pressed upon the white canvas puts the viewer into his position of captivity. It is a piece that ignites in me the fire of revolutionary that I am. 

The piece above is called “Green power” and it is a phenomenal work of art. In it there is a hand which holds up four male sex organs otherwise known as the penis. The photo places power not only in ones hands but also into the penis, remarking on the state and condition of power, who has it who has access to it and what it means to be powerful. The penis in this case, and in affect “manhood” is power. The green color I wold say remarks on the color of power, money is power and money is green. This is a great piece. 

The words from my heart

I write to the Black girls who know what its like to be the figure used, I write to the Black boys whose figures are despised, and I write to Black people because I am you and you are me… Here are to poems which speak of experince ones of which the Black female position influence, I write of what I know, I sing of what I breath and I speak to the world around me….enjoy 

What one makes of history

I am 

I am the offspring of a stolen people

of lost ancestry, of no language

of broken and whipped bloodied backs

I am the daughter of mother/father taken

I am the mother of new grown profit 

I am the sister to removed siblings

I am the result of a world that lives for my loss

I am the raped, girls youth

I am the past, present and ambiguous future

Poem 2:

Everything means nothing

I drift in moments, in which the color of the day has collapsed

into and away from me 

no hues of deep jade cushioning my steps

no shades of citrus consuming my body with warmth 

There is no separation between eyes open and eyes shut

sleep a luxury which avoids me

My existence is a dream state

requiring moments of being to be pulled into 

memory by embellishments of social communication: 

his cologne, her perfume, the notes to a melody the words in a speech

I see greetings from strangers I know

and smiles on faces I can not recall

noon is evening, morning is night

I grasp for space and time in an attempt to remain still 

nothing is consistent 

            except my heart beat

 

To be the one who smiles

I have spent the greater part of my young adult life playing inside and through the notion of who I thought I was. It wasn’t until the last two years of my college education, the two years which have fundamentally shifted not only the projection that I have had for my life but also its very meaning, that I have rested comfortably in the fact that I have no idea who I am and I never will. I am not afraid of things out of my control but rather I am afraid of the idea that I never lived… how ever impossible that may be 

“living for the water that brings life into me” 

Just an Introduction

Writing is a sort of life support for me, its more than therapy its a way of breathing in the morning air and resting during a clam night. Its how I vinture into each day and function within in every moment. I havent written a blog in a while but I think its time to just start writing again. 

The purpose of this blog is to record my summer events, this will be the longest summer that I will spend away from my companion and in the spirit of coping I thought I write. Two months filled with What I hope will be quite the interesting post and adventures. The stories that I will supply here I hope i will bring smiles to the faces of those who read it

So I will say Hello, and lets have a little fun :) 

water4thenile